


Better than the Brandy

by Flammenkobold



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Choking, Coming Untouched, Face-Fucking, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kneeling, M/M, Manhandling, Mildly Dubious Consent, Objectification, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Sub!Carter, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, dom!wilde, dom/sub elements, fearboner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23965756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flammenkobold/pseuds/Flammenkobold
Summary: Carter needs a drink. Wilde needs to relieve some stress. Carter getting caught while raiding Wilde's alcohol cabinet may get them both what they need.
Relationships: Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming)/Howard Carter (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 70





	Better than the Brandy

Everyone is in a mood lately, the continued rain not helping with all the other tensions that are running high. Being camped out in this backwater inn on some small island with their mission not moving forward isn’t exactly conducive to a good mood to begin with. But then Barnes had to go and mess up his solo mission and Carter swears they’re all about to go for each other’s throats if anyone says the wrong thing. He almost wishes they would, just so he doesn’t have to deal with all the misery. Barnes is barely out of quarantine and slinking around moodily, Wilde looks like he might murder anyone at the slightest provocation and Zolf has opted for aggressive cooking in a way that indicates the knife is going to slip as easily into someone as it’s cutting vegetables if anybody so much as peeks into the kitchen.

Mostly it’s Wilde, though. When Wilde is in a mood Carter swears the temperature inside the inn literally drops. And Wilde is always in a mood, but right now he’s in a _mood_ , and Carter longs for his old fur coat.

He needs a drink.

The ale and the sake at the inn taste like pisswater, if you ask him, and normally that doesn’t stop him from drinking it ‘cause it still does what it’s supposed to - get you blackout drunk if needed. He’s got his own personal stack downstairs, pilfered from various missions and houses and Wilde’s private cabinet that he seems to never touch. Every time Carter has a look, there are the same bottles on top, collecting dust, and behind the closed door below the same bottle stands in front, half empty. Carter isn’t sure why Wilde keeps these things, if he doesn’t even drink them. He’s taken a few from the back, replaced them with similar looking bottles from the inn filled with water. Wilde hasn’t said anything so far, and it’s been two months.

Barnes has been slinking down the corridors every now and again and Carter isn’t too enthused about being caught down in the cell while retrieving his own stash. 

So Carter needs a drink, and the best drinks around here still happen to be in Wilde’s office. Which is off-limits, under threat of death, a death that he is sure both Barnes and Zolf will facilitate if Wilde doesn’t end him first. Not that that has ever stopped Carter.

They’re all as good as dead anyway, and he’ll be damned if he waits for his own without any good booze. Which is why he steals out of his room in the middle of the night and into Wilde’s office, making sure the bastard isn’t actually in there still working.

One of the bottles on top is opaque, that one holds the really good stuff and Carter intends to take just enough for a pleasant buzz before retrieving another bottle from the back of the cabinet below to get himself properly drunk. 

He doesn’t even get around to opening the bottle of brandy before the door behind him clicks open and he freezes. Whoever is opening it doesn’t even bother to be quiet, like they own- oh, shit.

Carter doesn’t move, doesn’t dare, because if he does he’s sure Wilde _will_ kill him. 

Wilde doesn’t say anything as he steps behind Carter and Carter swallows, gripping the bottle tight. “I don’t know shit about brandy,” he says nervously and internally kicks himself in the shin. What a way to get yourself killed, Howard, saying the stupidest thing in the stupidest situation. He supposes he was always going to go this way.

Long fingers come up and place themselves over Carter’s hands, pressing them down and placing the bottle back onto the cabinet. Carter’s sharp inhale sounds even louder in his own ears than the clink of the bottle. Wilde’s fingers are cold and delicate and Carter knows Wilde doesn’t need to get them dirty to kill him. They are long and lovely and once upon a time Carter offered to suck them and earned himself the harshest rejection he’s ever gotten, the beating he received in school included. He got the memo then, but his body clearly hasn’t because the touch alone is making him so hard he could drill through the adamantine bars downstairs. 

Wilde’s fingers slide up his arm, over the placket of his shirt, grazing the naked skin underneath. Carter can feel his own heart slamming against his ribcage, and his breath freezes in his throat. Then Wilde’s hand is around said throat and Carter doesn’t think he’s ever going to breathe again. Wilde’s fingers grip him securely and effortlessly and with such self-assurance that Carter can’t do anything but go along with whatever Wilde wants.

When Wilde turns his head, Carter nearly whimpers, if he could make any noise at all. Wilde’s face is cold and uncompromising, close to bored, his eyes assessing Carter and the pitiful state he is in. Then he pulls Carter close, fingers digging into Carter’s throat as he kisses him, harsh and unyielding and things go from ice cold to far too hot in a second. When Wilde pushes him back to examine his work, fingers still fitted around his throat, Carter nearly points out that he made it very clear that this wasn’t ever going to happen just a few weeks back. For once, his brain does the smart thing and shuts up. 

If this is a once in a lifetime chance to get fucked by Oscar Wilde, Carter will take it. So instead he brings his own hands up, grasps Wilde’s neck and brings him back in again, kissing him for all it’s worth. He only stops when Wilde pushes him back harshly and slams him against the desk. The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to look the tiniest bit dishevelled while Carter feels like he’s looking a right mess. Wilde’s gaze is still cool and it runs over Carter’s form in a way that’s nearly dismissive. He still hasn’t said anything, doesn’t need to, really, when his eyes flicker down shortly. Carter’s body gets the order anyway, and follows it promptly by dropping to his knees.

Wilde takes his time removing his jacket, places it neatly on the desk next to Carter, his body so close Carter can feel the heat emanating from it. He swallows down the saliva gathering in his mouth. Wilde rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and Carter follows the motions transfixed, the reveal of even the tiniest bit of skin enough to make him want to sob with need. Finally Wilde turns his attention back to him, one of his hands winding into his hair, pulling it back until Carter’s neck strains and his scalp prickles with near-pain. When he seems satisfied with what he sees, he places the fingers of his other hand against Carter’s lips, slips them in probingly. Carter dutifully opens his mouth, sucks them down, forces himself not to gag when they go down too far. Something that sounds almost like a sneer escapes Wilde’s lips and Carter almost comes instantly at this tiniest acknowledgement.

When Wilde withdraws his fingers Carter whines, and it earns him a sharp tug on his hair that makes his eyes water with pain. It does nothing to diminish the hardness between his legs. Carter forces down another whine, forces down _any_ pleading, because Wilde doesn’t seem like he’d react kindly to it. When he manages to keep quiet for a bit longer, Wilde lets go of his hair and Carter nearly presses his hands to his mouth to keep down a noise of despair. He manages without and is rewarded by Wilde opening his trousers. Carter is thrilled to see that Wilde isn’t as unaffected as his face makes it seem. His cock is hard and leaking and darkened with blood. Carter wants to suck it so badly saliva nearly drips down the side of his mouth, wants to serve Wilde in any way Wilde wants him to.

It’s just his lucky day, then, when Wilde seems to want him to suck his cock as well. His hand grips Carter’s hair again, pulls his head back until his throat is exposed and straining into a straight line. Then he feeds Carter his cock, inch by inch, until Carter’s lips close around the base of it, until he can feel the head of it at the back of his throat. 

Carter _wants_. 

At this point he isn’t even sure what he wants exactly, except to be used at Wilde’s leisure. And Wilde does, fucks into his mouth with measured thrusts, making Carter swallow helplessly around the girth of his cock.

Carter’s fingers twitch against the fabric of his trousers, but beyond that he doesn’t dare touch himself. Not unless Wilde allows it, and Wilde is giving no sign that he would. It doesn’t matter, he realizes, he doesn’t need to touch himself when Wilde uses him like this, uses him like he’s been brought along for this purpose alone, to function as Wilde’s stress relief. So he just takes it, lets Wilde fuck his mouth in any way he likes, swallows everything down dutifully when Wilde finally comes inside his throat, allows Carter to taste him. 

When he pulls out, Carter feels like he’s been fucked raw in multiple ways, even with his own cock still straining against his trousers and all of his clothes, drenched in sweat as they are, still on. Wilde on the other hand looks entirely unruffled as he puts his cock away, not a hair out of place, his clothes still immaculate. His face is still unreadable, but his touch is almost gentle when he reaches out again to put a stray hair back into place on Carter’s head. 

It’s as much of a permission as he’s ever to get and Carter comes in his trousers with a quiet gasp. By the time his senses return, Wilde is already at the door.

“See that you get yourself cleaned up. And don’t fill the bottle with water,” he says dismissively. 

“Yes, sir,” Carter says on instinct. Wilde raises an eyebrow at him and Carter feels heat rise up into his cheeks. Somehow this is more embarrassing than being used by his employer as a personal sex toy. 

Wilde doesn’t say anything, just steps outside. It might be Carter’s imagination, but he seems a tiny bit less chilly than before. 

When the door clicks into the lock again, Carter lets out a shaky breath. That’s happened, then. His limbs are equally shaky when he stands up and he isn’t sure if he can even pour himself a glass without spilling half the bottle. But Wilde did give him permission to peruse the cabinet, of sorts.

And gods, Carter really needs a drink.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that scene in Halt and Catch Fire, thank you Lee Pace. Also thank you to my beta reader yakyuu_yarou.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Better than the Brandy (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403423) by [melangerubin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melangerubin/pseuds/melangerubin)




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